Day By Day
by rosiesbar
Summary: Part 16 of 'In All Kinds of Weather'. Directly after the events of 'Weathering the Storm', and Hawkeye and Trapper are living in uneasy separation in a motel out of town. With Trapper detoxing and in need of help, their future hangs in the balance, and Hawkeye finds his resolve tested to the limit as he struggles to help Trapper through this difficult time.
1. Day One

_**Author's note:**_ _Due to the length of chapters, and in a break from my usual update policy, this fic will be updated on a daily basis, as befitting the title._

* * *

 ** _DAY ONE…_**

Hawkeye kicked the door closed with his heel, juggling an armful of groceries as he did so. Their basic little motel room had, fortunately, furnished them with a modest kitchenette, which meant they could at least cook for themselves.

"Okay, I got bread, luncheon meats, dried pasta, pepperoni, tinned beans, coffee granules and that god-awful long-life milk stuff. It's all disgusting but it's got a shelf life of about a hundred years, so we could probably survive a nuclear winter if we have to." He looked up from his bundle, and stopped dead.

Trapper was hunched over on the bed, clutching his gut. His skin was pale and glistening, and he was clearly in some discomfort.

"You don't look so good." Hawkeye's usually jovial tone was grave, his brow knitted in concern.

Trapper glanced up at him. "Thanks. You really know how to flatter a guy. Would it kill ya to mince your words a little?"

"Actually, I was. You look like shit." Hawkeye dumped the groceries on the table and moved over to press a hand to Trapper's forehead.

"I'm fine." Trapper pushed him away.

"Bullshit. Hold still." Again, Hawkeye pressed his hand to Trapper's forehead, finding his skin cold and clammy. He said nothing, but sighed.

"What? Am I dying?"

"Have you eaten much this morning?"

"Oh, like what?" Trapper gestured to the kitchen, which Hawkeye had just dashed off to the store to fill. A pause, as he begrudgingly allowed himself to be cared for. "Had a candy bar in my jacket, but I couldn't finish it. My gut hurts."

"How did you sleep?"

"Lousy! Same as I have for the past week!"

Hawkeye huffed, but let Trapper's grumpiness go unchecked, for now. "I'm gonna call into work, let them know I won't be in for a few days."

"Oh, come on!"

"Hey!" Hawkeye's tone and raised finger showed he meant business. He checked his pocket for change and retrieved his room key from the nightstand. "I'll be right back. Just taking a stroll to the payphone."

This time, Trapper didn't argue. He just sat quietly on his bed, painfully aware that his hands were shaking.


	2. Day Two

_**DAY TWO...**_

Trapper didn't feel so hot. But he was damned if he was going to let on.

Hawkeye had stayed home, like he'd promised, and now they were sat watching some awful daytime light entertainment crap by way of a distraction. It was supposed to make Trapper feel better. It didn't.

Thumping the mattress, Trapper changed position, sitting upright against his pillows with his legs pulled tightly against his abdomen, trying to ease the cramps that were spasming through his gut. "This is dumb!"

"I know, but it's the only channel we can get without the picture going all crappy."

"I ain't talkin' about the TV!"

Hawkeye swallowed. "I know that." Bristling, he pushed his chair back and retrieved the sandwich he'd made for Trapper almost an hour ago. "I know you don't want me here, and I know why."

Trapper gave a derisive snort of a laugh. "I'm not about to sneak out an' have a drink! I don't need a babysitter! I'm fine!" His lunch was placed on the nightstand for the third time, and Trapper eyed it distastefully, turning to stare angrily at the TV and tucking his hands under his knees to hide the shaking.

Hawkeye regarded his demeanour with a weary sigh. He had expected this to be tough. He had expected Trapper to be surly and bad-tempered and resistant to the process. He just hadn't expected to care so damned much! He'd thought separating from Trapper would give him the distance he needed to be objective about this!

Apparently not.

Sitting on his bed and wiping a hand over his face, Hawkeye tried to keep his mind clear and his thoughts focused. "Look, Trapper," he began haltingly, his throat feeling tight.

"Turn the damned TV off."

"Can I just–?"

"I said TURN IT OFF!"

Hawkeye had to try very, very hard not to walk away. Trapper's raised voice, despite the knowledge that it was the result of his detox, was taking him back to a place he didn't want to go. "Okay, okay…" He stood, crossed the room in a few strides, and hit the button on the TV. "There. It's off."

Trapper didn't say anything. He was just sitting there with his eyes closed and his head down.

Trying again, Hawkeye sat beside him, praying his patience would go the distance. "Trapper," he tried again as gently as he could. "I'm not saying this to insult you – I'm stating a medical fact. You're an addict and you're detoxing! Of course you're getting cravings, you don't have to hide that. I'm not here for you to impress – I'm here so I can stop you sabotaging yourself when things get bad." He paused for a moment, taking in Trapper's clammy skin and trembling hands. "I'm also here to keep an eye on you in case you get the DT's and have to take a trip to the emergency room. So, whether you like it or not, I'm staying. Understand? Are we good?"

There was no reply. Trapper sat, frozen in place, save for the shivering.

"Trapper?"

He reached out and placed a hand on Trapper's shaking arm. At last, Trapper raised his head. His eyes were narrowed, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. He was repeating something under his breath, a whispered litany that Hawkeye couldn't make out.

"Trapper, what is it?"

His breathing laboured, Trapper raised a hand, pointing at the empty space above the TV. His voice started to crack as he stated, in a hushed, panicked whisper: " _There's something in the walls_."


	3. Day Three

**_DAY THREE…_**

His teeth were chattering. He couldn't hold still. And Hawkeye was convinced he was going to bite clean through the thermometer.

At last, Hawkeye extracted it from his patient's clenched jaws. His temperature was up, but not dangerously so. That was a good sign, and good signs were seriously lacking right now.

Trapper was curled up in a ball, his hands twisted into claws as he battled Hawkeye for control of his blankets, his skin glistening with sweat, his t-shirt damp. "Trapper, no. You have a fever, we need to get your temperature down."

At last, Trapper surrendered, rolling onto his side, holding himself as he rocked gently, groaning, delirious and pained.

"I'll get you some water."

The bathroom was a welcome refuge from Trapper's protests. Still and silent, Hawkeye held a glass under the tap, watching as the water foamed and swirled. What he wouldn't give for this to be over!

He returned to find Trapper in the same position where he had left him, still thrashing, still groaning. Hawkeye helped him to sit and raised the glass to his lips, but as his body tremored and his breath escaped him in uncontrollable, uneven sobs, it was inevitable that some of it spilled on the bed.

Trapper swore. He'd never felt so helpless! How could he be so damaged? Ashamed, frustrated, and angry, he pushed Hawkeye away.

"Come on, you need fluids."

Again, Trapper was pulled up. Again, he was forced to drink. And then, at last, he collapsed, exhausted back onto his pillow. He let out a long, low, groan of anguish, and shoved angrily at Hawkeye as he rolled away, his eyes screwed closed. "Why the fuck are you making me do this, you son of a bitch?!"

Hawkeye straightened, his back rigid, his jaw squared. "I'm not making you do anything. You said you were ready, you made the choice, and I'm helping."

But his words went unheard. Trapper was once again lost in his delirium, shaking and gasping as he battled whatever demons his addiction was throwing at him, twitching away from whatever unseen terrors assaulted his senses. Hawkeye picked up the empty glass and left the room. It would be some time before he could face coming back.


	4. Day Four

**_DAY FOUR…_**

Trapper stared. He wasn't able to do much else. The constant crawling mass that seemed to cover much of his field of vision would still be there no matter where he looked. If he closed his eyes, he could feel it, which was worse. And so, he lay, and he kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, and he stared at it. Too exhausted to fight any more, too wired to sleep. Every now and then his body would spasm or his gut would clench, but he found if he just lay quietly and focused on the strange kaleidoscope before his eyes, tried to tell himself that it couldn't hurt him, it was almost bearable.

Every now and then, it became too much, and he would cower away, wailing like a child suffering from bad dreams, unable to tell the nightmare from reality. And then, minutes later, the moment would pass and he was lucid once more – lucid, and horrified by how real at had been, how he had clawed at his skin under the illusion that something was burrowing into him.

Now was one of his more lucid moments. He was vaguely aware that he was alone. Hawkeye had gone… somewhere. He didn't know where. He hadn't left, had he? No, no he hadn't. He'd said he'd be back soon, although for a while there Trapper had blacked out and forgotten that and spent ten minutes or so sobbing in panicked despair convinced he'd been abandoned. But, for now at least, he could remember.

Had he been feeling stronger, he may very well have tried to make a dash to a liquor store to feed his craving, although Hawkeye had, of course, taken all their cash with him. Not only that but, somewhere in the back of his mind, Trapper had an inkling of something new – a sense that the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight, and he didn't want to back out now.

The things on the ceiling changed direction and began to move in an interesting double spiral around the lightbulb. Trapper stared, and laughed.

He was vaguely aware of Hawkeye returning some time later. He didn't know when. Could be an hour, could be five minutes. Who could say?

There was a rattle, and Trapper turned his head to see Hawkeye shaking a small pill out of a pot and into the palm of his hand. "Here," he said simply, holding the pill out to Trapper and offering him a glass of water.

Trapper took it.

"What was that?"

"Chlordiazepoxide," Hawkeye replied, capping the bottle and slipping it into his pocket.

"Where'd you get those?"

Hawkeye gave a tense frown, refusing to look at him as he tidied away the food Trapper had scarcely touched while he'd been away. "Never you mind."

Turning his head, Trapper squinted through the constantly creeping haze, watching as Hawkeye's hands busied themselves with his mess. "Hey," he murmured, his mouth feeling dry as he spoke, his head throbbing as he tried to focus. "Your watch is gone."

A brief, tight smile from Hawkeye as he turned his head to glance at Trapper. "For somebody half delusional with withdrawal, you can be very perceptive when I don't want you to be."

"You didn't have to…"

"No, but I did it anyway."

"I never asked…"

"No, but I decided. Now lie back."

It was only when Hawkeye started manhandling him back into bed that Trapper realised he'd tried to get up. Presumably to… run off down the street to retrieve Hawkeye's watch? He laughed, the absurdity of his own delirious mind suddenly striking him as hilariously funny! What a marvellous thing the brain was! How delightfully rebellious and unpredictable!

"You remember," he chuckled, howling as Hawkeye persuaded him back into his bed, "in Korea? When I swiped your watch an' almost lost it in a poker game!"

"Yes, I remember." Hawkeye's response was lacking any spark of amusement, but Trapper continued to guffaw like a madman.

"An' you were so mad, you took all my loot!"

"Yes, well, consider my fee paid in advance. Now, sleep. We both need it."

Calmer now, Trapper sank into the mattress, his head lolling gently on the pillow. Hawkeye checked his pulse, cursing under his breath as he realised he had no watch to check the time with, and so he just had to go by feel. Content that Trapper's heartrate was nicely on the safe side of racing, he then pressed a hand to his head. He was still clammy, and warm to the touch, but not burning up as he had been not so long ago.

Trapper moved his head to face him, but his eyes remained closed. In a voice little more than a murmur, he said: "Mother used to kiss my forehead…"

Hawkeye felt like the ground had just given way beneath him. His eyes stung.

Already, Trapper was out for the count, either drugged or delirious, and he didn't notice – not the significance of his words, nor Hawkeye's reaction. Nor did he notice when Hawkeye had to escape to the bathroom yet again, hiding for several minutes before returning with red-rimmed eyes and a lump in his throat.


	5. Day Five

_**DAY FIVE...**_

Trapper awoke to a throbbing headache. His throat felt sandpaper, his eyelids much the same. Groggy, he lay perfectly still for a minute or so, not wanting to slip fully into consciousness. But, gradually, his mind began to clear, and, with a sense of dread and trepidation, he opened his eyes.

The room was unpleasantly bright. Broad daylight was slipping in from behind the blinds, glaringly intrusive in its luminosity. But, to his great delight, Trapper found that the walls were no longer moving. The creepy-crawly… 'things' had gone. Either the drugs worked, or he was getting better. Or both.

Delighting in the novelty of being able to look around him without squinting through a kaleidoscope of horrors, Trapper studied the blandness of the room with a new appreciation. The sterile mint walls were beautifully smooth and drab, the carpet beautiful in its dull, beige glory!

And then, slumped in the armchair at the foot of the bed, he noticed Hawkeye.

Hawkeye, too, was perfectly still, sat with his head back, arms flat against the arms of the chair, utterly exhausted and out for the count.

At the first sign of movement from Trapper, his eyes shot open, and he twitched as he awoke. It couldn't have been an easy sleep, Trapper thought. He remembered, rather painfully, falling asleep like that when Becky had colic, never quite able to let himself drift off completely, always half-awake waiting for that first cry.

Hawkeye looked up at him, his eyes unmistakably red and weary, either from sleep deprivation, tears, or both, Trapper wasn't sure. He blinked twice, ran a hand over his face, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he squinted at Trapper from across the room. "Oh, hey."

"Hey, Hawk." It seemed like a puny greeting to give a man who had just watched over him in his hour of need. Or more like several days of need.

"You're awake," Hawkeye commented, perhaps a little redundantly, perhaps for wont of anything else to say.

"Looks like." Trapper quirked a weak smile, squinting through tired eyes. "How long was I out?"

"Uh…" Hawkeye checked his watch, only to remember as he did so that it wasn't there. "What time is it?"

Trapper glanced beside him at the cheap clock that adorned his nightstand, courtesy of their hosts. "Four o'clock."

"Then the best part of twenty-eight hours. You woke up a couple of times, limped to the bathroom, tried to beat up the walls on the way back to bed. It wasn't pretty, so I gave you a couple more of those pills and you nodded off again."

Trapper shook his head. "I don't remember nothin'. I must'a slept like the dead."

Hawkeye wrinkled his nose. "Not really. I don't know what was going on in your head but it didn't sound like a barrel of laughs in there."

"It weren't all that great bein' awake either," Trapper replied with a frown.

"Well, you're awake now!" Hawkeye observed. "And lucid. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, I'm just leaping to conclusions based on the lack of screaming, and the whole 'moving, eyes open, and talking' thing. I didn't go to medical school for nothing!"

"Yeah, I'm awake," Trapper yawned. "Either that or this dream is vivid as hell. Not to mention dull."

"Yeah, well, if Betty Page walks in wearing hotpants and tassles and starts doing the cha-cha, we'll know you're dreaming."

Trapper chuckled, then winced and clutched his belly. "Ugh, don't make me laugh!"

Still in doctor-mode, Hawkeye leapt up from his chair. "Your stomach hurts?"

"Yeah."

"Could be an ulcer. Where does it hurt? Does it feel like it did before? Can you recall?"

In a flash, Hawkeye was sitting on the side of his bed, gently prodding his belly.

"Hey!" Swatting his hands away, Trapper recoiled. He was sweaty and disgusting and the last thing he wanted was Hawkeye fondling him!

Hawkeye withdrew, and ceased his spontaneous examination. "Sorry."

"It don't feel like an ulcer," Trapper replied. "I think… I think I'm just hungry."

"Oh." Hawkeye gave him a look of pleasant surprise. "You want me to fix you a sandwich?"

"Let me wake up a little first, huh?"

"Okay." Hawkeye shot him a smile. "But just so you know, I have to be at work in…" He glanced at his naked wrist. "Oh, goddamnit!" Rolling his eyes, he leaned over to examine Trapper's bedside clock. "A little under an hour."

"Oh." Trapper tried his best not to look disappointed or concerned.

"Yeah. Any more time off and I won't have a job to go back to. So… this afternoon, you're on your own."

Trapper tensed a little and tried not to show how terrified that made him feel. "Right." He wished he'd stayed unconscious.

Rising from the bed, Hawkeye, too, ignored the unspoken fear. Staying was not an option. They needed to find a more permanent solution to their accommodation problem, and that meant saving up a deposit. "So, shall I fix you that sandwich now?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice." Trapper nodded. His eyes followed Hawkeye as he wandered over to their tin kitchen to prepare lunch. "I think," he said, slipping out from under his sweaty blankets, "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Yeah?" Hawkeye turned, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, ya don't have to act so surprised about it!" He smirked at Hawkeye, but his jovial attitude was sullied by embarrassment as his legs gave way when he tried to stand. Hawkeye dashed forward to help him.

"Careful!"

"I got this."

"Hang onto something! You've been practically bedridden for the best part of a week. Your legs aren't going to be in great shape."

Clinging to the doorframe, Trapper gradually managed to navigate his way into the bathroom, turn the water on, and clamber over the side. Once there, he let gravity have its way with him, and he sank slowly to the ground to rest cross-legged for a moment while he got his breath back. He spent much of his shower sitting in the tub letting the water wash over him, horrified by how weak he felt, but it was good to be clean. He wanted to burn his sweat-soaked pyjamas!

Freshly scrubbed, he donned the larger of the two clean towels and limped through to the bedroom again, massaging his hair with the smaller one. He sank onto the bed with great relief, his legs already starting to wobble.

"There!" Hawkeye announced, thrusting a plate of luncheon meat sandwiches into his hand as he sat beside him. "Please, for the love of god, eat! You have no idea how many of those I've tried to force down you over the past week!"

"You're worse than my mother," Trapper grumbled, fingering the offering with a little apprehension. "I ain't ever hungry when I'm sick, you know that."

"Yeah, I know." Hawkeye's tone softened, and something flickered across his face, like he'd just fallen into a memory that was in some way painful. "Just… try to eat something before I have to leave. It'd make me feel better. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good!" Hawkeye's smile lit up his face, and he stood, with something of a triumphant air. "I need to get ready for work."

"Hey, Hawk?" Trapper asked around his first bite of real food for five days.

"Hmm?" Hawkeye did an almost graceful one-eighty in the middle of the room.

Trapper swallowed, and tried to work out how best to phrase his next request. "There's a brown suitcase on the back seat of the car. It's got my chequebook, bank papers, deposit book, an' whatever cash I got saved up." He paused, as a tiny voice in the back of his subconscious, even now, pleaded with him not to do what he was about to do. "Could you take them with you, please?"

"Sure." Hawkeye said no more, but the look on his face suggested he understood. "Is it bad?" he asked, not even sure if he should be pressing for this much information.

"Not right now," Trapper replied, "but it's probably going to get worse after you leave."

The question was unintentionally barbed with a double meaning, and Hawkeye winced and looked away.

Trapper couldn't fail to notice his pained expression. "I didn't mean…"

"No, I know what you meant."

"Besides, I ain't been exactly able to walk so good until now! I'm just a little worried that... if the mood takes me, I might be able to make it as far as the liquor store."

"Jury's still out on that one!" Hawkeye forced a smile. "So, uh… you got some lunch and I put some coffee on for you while you were in the shower. And you can have another of those pills in about three hours. If you start seeing things again…"

"Take the crazy pills, yeah I know."

Hawkeye sighed, none too happy to be leaving Trapper to face his demons alone. "Are you sure you'll be okay?"

Oh, boy! There was a question! Trapper stared at him, sighed deeply, and shrugged. "I guess I'm gonna have to be!"


	6. Day Six

**DAY SIX…**

Trapper sat perched on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together, palms clammy. Hawkeye's shift finished twenty two minutes ago. Where _was_ he?

Spending his afternoons alone was, he had decided, sheer hell. He'd turned on the TV for company, only to be met with what seemed like a constant stream of liquor commercials. Time and time again, he was forced to change channel between shows and watch the static, trying to silence his cravings.

That wasn't the only problem. His hallucinations, his paranoia – those were creeping up on him, too. Not as often as they had, nor as intense, but enough to leave him shaken and questioning his own senses. Several times he glanced at the pill pot on the nightstand, but… no, it wouldn't do to swap out his alcohol problem for a drug addiction. He knew he had to be careful. He knew he could do this from here on out.

Or he thought he could.

As the afternoon dragged on, he was feeling less and less sure of himself, more and more desperate for Hawkeye to come home, and more and more desperate for a drink.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him Hawkeye had abandoned him. He tried not to listen. The clock on the wall crept to the twenty-five minute mark. A commercial break flickered onto the screen. Trapper muted the set and, in a ritual he had acquired in the space of the past two days, began to count to fill the void between shows: "One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, four…"

A key in the lock broke his reverie, and Trapper leapt to his feet.

"Oh, thank Christ!"

Hawkeye stepped through the door to find himself met with Trapper standing in the middle of the room looking like he was about to challenge him to a duel. There was a slightly startled look in the man's eyes, and Hawkeye glanced about himself, momentarily alarmed. "Am I interrupting something?"

Trapper blinked at him, embarrassed by how twitchy he was feeling. "No."

Still, Hawkeye eyed him suspiciously. "Have you been drinking? You'd tell me if you had, right?"

"No!" Trapper leapt to reply, then clarified: "That is to say, uh… no I haven't been drinking, an' _yes_ I would tell you."

A pause, and Hawkeye's expression softened.

"Can I get outta here?" Trapper added. "Is that okay? It's just… I've sorta been cooped up all day, an' if I have to sit through one more commercial break tryin'a sell me light beer, I'm gonna lose it!"

Like a flash, Hawkeye snapped the switch on the power supply for the TV, and the room went quiet. "You got it. Let's take a drive."

* * *

They didn't drive far. Abandoning the freeway, they headed east, following winding country roads through remote clusters of houses and tiny towns that reminded Hawkeye of Crabapple Cove. After living for so long in the city, he had almost forgotten that Massachusetts existed outside of Boston!

More by luck than judgement, they found their way to a remote beachside town, little more than a couple of dozen houses built haphazardly around a tiny bay. A few docks and piers jutted out into the harbour, and a mix of fishing boats and small pleasure craft bobbed in the ocean. The sun was setting now, and most of the holiday crowd had gone home. A handful of remaining families were in the process of persuading their children out of the water and brushing sand off squirming bodies. Hawkeye managed to grab a couple of ice creams before the tiny store on the seafront shut up shop for the night.

And so they sat, perched on a wall overlooking the harbour, watching the summer sky turn pink.

"This place reminds me of a beach I used to go to as a kid," Hawkeye commented as he nibbled on his ice cream, kicking his legs to and fro as they dangled, his toes kicking furrows in the sand. "This little play just up the freeway, in Lincolnville. Just a tiny little strip of beach, a few houses, and a place that does great lobster! In the summer, all the locals head up there. It's beautiful!"

"I know. I've been there. Remember?" Trapper smiled around his cornet, trying to decide if the cold ice cream was helping his symptoms or not.

"Oh, yeah…" Hawkeye gave an embarrassed smile, and turned away to face the sunset.

"You went fishin' usin' just your hands. I took your picture. Shortly after that, I think I fell in the mud. I usually do when we go the beach. I'm kinda waitin' for puddle to sneak up on me once we head back to the car."

Hawkeye laughed. It wasn't that boisterous cackle Trapper had always adored, but it was nice to hear Hawkeye laugh, and even nicer to think he'd made him do it. It was good to see him _happy_ for once. Hawkeye deserved to be happy… Oblivious to Trapper's internal musings, Hawkeye continued to devour his ice cream. "This is nice, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It is." Trapper managed a small smile, ducking his head and paying unnecessary attention to his ice cream cone. "Y'know Hawk, you don't have to keep doin' this."

Hawkeye blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Lookin' after me. I mean, once I'm all settled, you can… y'know, take off."

There was a pause as Hawkeye considered his suggestion. "There's no hurry."

"Hawk, c'mon!" Trapper's tone was sharper, his look more pointed. "We both know why you're doin' this, takin' me to the beach, buyin' me ice cream. But you don't have to. You don't _owe_ me anythin'!"

"Trapper, could you… could you just shut up?" It wasn't spoken in anger, and Hawkeye's tone was more amusement than anything else. With an enigmatic smile he gestured to the horizon. "Do you know what this is?"

Trapper shrugged. "The Atlantic Ocean?"

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "This is the first nice day out we've had in… probably a _year_. Maybe two! The first day out we've spent together without you being drunk, twitchy, or a total grumpy-pants!"

Trapper pouted at the childish language. "I ain't a grumpy-pants…"

"Grumpy-pants!" Hawkeye reiterated. "And here we are, enjoying this beautiful day, with ice creams and a sunset… and no mud, as of yet, and you're trying to get _rid_ of me!"

And Trapper stared at him. "I'm just sayin…"

"Well, _don't_." Hawkeye turned away, his head down, suddenly sullen. He stared at his ice cream. "There's no point in having this conversation right now, because you're not out of the woods yet, and I'm not…" There was a pause as he mulled over the word to describe whatever it was he wasn't. Trapper waited in tense silence. "I'm not ready," he murmured at last.

Trapper nodded, and dropped the subject. ' _Ready for what?_ ' ghosted through his consciousness momentarily. But that question, he thought, turning his attentions back to the sunset, would have to wait for another day.


	7. Day Seven

**_DAY SEVEN…_**

Trapper adjusted his tie, tilting his chin upwards and staring down his nose at his reflection. "How do I look?"

Beside him, Hawkeye was polishing up a pair of scruffy brogues. He had long since given up trying to get a shine on them and was more preoccupied with attempting to grind polish into the scuff marks to disguise them. He glanced up. "In dim light, you'd almost pass for human."

Trapper chuckled. "Smart bastard."

"You know these shoes have holes in, right?"

"They're the only ones that go with my suit."

"I didn't have you pegged for a stickler for colour co-ordination."

"Okay, correction – they're the only ones that ain't _sneakers_."

"Correction maintained." Hawkeye banged his shoe polish on the table like a gavel, and held up Trapper's shoes. "Your shoes, sir! Or what's left of them."

"Thanks, Hawk." Sitting on the bed to don his shoes, Trapper tried not to feel too intimidated by the quest that lay before him. He tried not to think about it at all, but, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hawkeye counting their meagre savings and organising the cash into a small brown envelope.

Hawkeye caught him watching. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"Not really," Trapper conceded, "but like ya said, we gotta move on sooner or later. Can't live outta motels forever."

"You know, I could always hold onto the money for a while? I mean, if you don't think you can…" ' _Hold it together? Be trusted with money? Stay off the booze?'_ There was no gentle way of putting it, so Hawkeye just let the sentence tail off.

Trapper eyed the envelope. Between his savings from his pay-check, Hawkeye's first week's wages of his new job, and the amount he'd accrued in tips, plus what remained from the sale of Hawkeye's watch, they had a hundred and forty bucks, plus change. It was enough for a modest deposit for a small apartment in a rough part of town – the kind of place where the rent was low enough for Trapper to have money left over for whatever help he needed. There it was, their combined worth, shovelled into one small envelope. ' _If we were getting a divorce right now_ ,' Trapper thought, ' _we'd be carving it right down the middle._ ' And yet Hawkeye was willingly handing it over to him, every last cent. He almost wanted to refuse, to tell Hawkeye that he wasn't worth it, but he knew Hawkeye wouldn't stand for him throwing himself on his sword like that. Not after everything he'd done to get him this far.

Instead, with a slightly shaking hand, he took the envelope. "If I get cravin's," he replied in a sombre tone, "I'll just picture myself livin' in a cardboard box under a railway bridge with a bottle o' Jack for company, an' that ought'a set me right."

"When it comes to sobering thoughts, really you don't sugar the pill, do you?"

"Just bein' honest with myself."

Hawkeye nodded, and smiled. "Keep it up. It's a good look on you."

* * *

They'd hit the city centre. They could tell by the fact that the traffic was moving at a slow and not-entirely-steady crawl. Hawkeye scanned the kerb for a parking space.

"There's one!"

Tugging the steering wheel violently to the right, Hawkeye managed to lurch the car clumsily into the space, cutting up the driver who was about to reverse into it.

Horns blared, and Hawkeye enunciated loudly through the windshield: "I'll only be a minute!"

The other driver swore at him, and sped off.

"Fine! Be like that!" Now, he turned his attentions back to Trapper. "Okay, you got everything you need?"

Trapper checked his pockets again for his deposit money and paperwork. "Check and check."

"And I'll pick you up here after I get off work, so try not to get lost."

"I'll be fine. I'm carryin' my map like a good li'l Boy Scout."

"Okay."

There was a pregnant pause as Hawkeye stared at him, perhaps hesitating over letting him out into the world. Trapper felt a strange empathy for him – he'd felt the same way the first time he and Louise had dropped Becky off at kindergarten.

"You sure you don't want me to keep hold of the money?"

Trapper took a deep breath. God, but that was tempting! "No," he said at last. "If I slap a deposit down right away, I got more chance o' gettin' a place. Besides–" he paused, glancing up and down the street, already able to spot two bars and one liquor store– "I gotta learn to stand on my own two feet sooner or later. If I ain't got the stones to do this alone…"

"I understand." Hawkeye gave him a tight smile. "You'd better get going. If I stay parked here much longer, I'm gonna get a ticket."

Trapper glanced at the way Hawkeye had stopped the car diagonally in the bay, forcing the traffic on the main drag to skirt around the back end of the Oldsmobile as it jutted out into the lane. He laughed. "This car ain't parked – it's abandoned!"

"Oh…" Hawkeye chuckled and, in a moment of playfulness, leaned close and rested his hand on Trapper's leg.

Trapper froze instantly, his spine straightening and his skin suddenly prickling with cold, uncomfortable sweat. In an instant, the atmosphere went from jovial to tense. Hawkeye removed his hand.

"Sorry. Force of habit, I guess." Hawkeye's tone was flat and sombre, his eyes downcast. Trapper just stared at the dashboard.

"'S okay. I get it." He glanced cautiously at Hawkeye, who was now wrapping both hands carefully around the steering wheel, as if to make sure he kept them to himself. "You'd better get goin'."

"Yeah, wouldn't want to miss the lunchtime rush: the quartet of pensioners, all of whom manage to drag a single beer out over two hours and then leave five cents on the bar and wink at me as they tell me to 'buy something nice for my girl'." Hawkeye shuddered. Frowning, he glanced up at Trapper, his brow creased in thought. But whatever was on his mind, he hid behind a pensive frown, and said nothing. "Don't mind me," he said. "I'll see you later, okay."

"Okay." And, with that, Trapper stepped out into the hot sun of the late summer afternoon, and into the bustling mayhem of Boston. The Oldsmobile pulled away, and Trapper watched, rooted to the pavement, staring as the teal automobile snaked off into the distance, and vanished into the traffic. He didn't move for some time, but just stood, clutching his hat with slightly trembling hands, letting the rush of the city just wash around him. He felt… alone. And so, with no real sense of direction, and nothing driving him forward but the grim determination of a man with nowhere to go but up, he turned into the crowds, and started walking.


End file.
